Terrors of the Night
by Child of Loki
Summary: Nell finally seems to be recovering from a traumatic experience when the nightmare returns for her... But how is Callen involved? And how will the team be able to protect her?
1. Nell's Nightmare

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS:LA or its characters…**

**Author's Note: So…um… I was all of a sudden taken with the character of Nell, and wanted to play a bit…**

* * *

The computer screen went dark. A fraction of a second later, the lights blinked out. The Office of Special Projects' operations room, sealed off from the outside world, was rendered pitch black, darker than the darkest night. With the system down, there was not a single light source to which eyes could adjust.

But no worries. Nell Jones knew a keyboard more intimately than a paramour knew their lover's body. She tried various commands to get the system to respond, to reboot, but to no avail. She ran her hand along the edge of the desk, down over the metal casing that still emanated warmth like human flesh, her fingers searching for that special spot. Again, Nell was reminded of lovers groping in the dark.

_Ha! Got it!_

If the subject under her eager hands had in fact been a lover rather than an unfeeling (albeit rather awesome) conglomeration of circuitry, he'd have been squirming in her grasp. Instead, she received nothing but cool indifference.

Nell swore aloud.

Careful not to strike her head on the edge of the desk, she climbed unceremoniously out from beneath the office furniture.

This was _not_ going to be pleasant.

Sticking her arms out in front of her and shuffling along like some sort of zombie or the Bride of Frankenstein, Nell made her way blindly towards the door (and freedom from the dark oblivion of ops). She had never noticed before that the table placed (inconveniently if you asked her!) in the middle of the room was of the precise height to jab her in the lower ribs.

She swore again and stumbled, catching herself against the solidity of the door. Automatically, she reached out to the lock... the _electronic_ lock.

_Damn! _

The pressure of the empty (she hoped) dark was beginning to close in on her. She felt as if something was sitting on her chest. A large book. Or cat, perhaps. Not enough to make her gasp for air or panic. Just enough to embed a constant awareness in the back of her mind of that unwelcome weight.

She was taking deep breaths, trying to calm herself, a humming buzz forming in her ears as she strained to hear things in the dark she knew were not there. Her primitive instinctual sense of self preservation (that had somehow refused to go the way of the appendix or vertebrae below the coccyx), however, was not convinced of her solitude in the blanketing dark.

Giving into instincts as old as time, Nell raised a fist to begin beating down the door when it slid open. A man with spiky blonde hair, glasses, Hawaiian shirt, shorts and sandals was standing there.

Eric smiled at her and then all of a sudden, his expression turned seriously grim.

"Nell," he said, his eyes wide with fear. "You have to get out of here."

That pressure on her chest increased to '_large_ cat', maybe 'small dog.'

"What about the power?" she asked. "We need to get the system back up."

"Don't worry about that," Eric said. "I'm headed to the basement."

Why the basement? The circuit breakers were on the first floor. As was their in-house server farm. She was about to protest as much but her fellow tech cut her off.

"Nell, you _really_ need to get out of here._ Now_."

And then he was running away, his footsteps echoing down the dimly (but thankfully somewhat) lit hall. The meager light filtering in through sparse windows was like the sun on a bright summer day after the oppressive dark of ops.

Nell stepped into the hall, looking after the way Eric had disappeared, but there was no sign of the man. She looked the other way, and saw an attractive woman with a dark ponytail vanish around the corner.

"Kensi!"

Nell ran after the female agent, slowing her pace to round the corner and stopping altogether when she found no one there. Confused, Nell turned around, thinking perhaps she had run right by the woman. Kensi was an extremely good secret agent, after all.

Nothing but eerie light flickering through the window, shimmering off swaths of dust floating in the air.

Her primitive brain stirred again, and Nell slowly spun around, expecting to find herself face to face with a velociraptor or grotesque, drooling alien, their breath fluffing her hair and forming droplets of moisture on her face as they snorted and sniffed her in order to ascertain her potential consumability.

Instead, she saw Sam standing at the end of the corridor, large and intimidating, looking tense but smiling in that genial manner of his that belied the gruff exterior. He was beckoning for her to come to him.

And she was most decidedly amenable to obey.

Nell sprinted towards the big, burly agent, only to be stopped short as the door closed, trapping her in the hall with Sam on the other side. It was such an unexpected shock that she stumbled back a few steps.

Panicked, she looked to Sam on the other side of the safety glass window. He was shouting at her, but she couldn't hear his words. However, the sound of his message wasn't necessary. She could read the syllables clearly on his lips.

_Get out, Nell. Run! Go!_

The man was so insistent that she flee, that Nell turned on her heel and ran for all she was worth. It didn't help that the pressure on her chest was getting worse.

She ran and ran, down corridor after corridor, impossibly feeling like she was just going around and around. And yet that primitive brain urging didn't let her stop to evaluate her situation. Her legs seemed to work of their own accord, propelling her onward even as her thoughts became more confused and addled and her lungs began to burn.

Blood pounded in Nell's ears and she could swear she heard a voice in the distance. Finally, she willed her legs to obey, and she stopped straining to hear the voice. Only after a futile minute of listening with her eyes closed did she finally survey her surroundings to find that she was standing beside the staircase.

_'Run, Nell! Get out of here!' _

The words were clear now, but the voice sounded impossibly distant. Distant but familiar...

_'Run!'_

Panic pushed her towards the stairs, and she descended in a run, taking them two at a time, gaining so much speed she knew, just _knew_ she'd hit the floor with such momentum to fall flat on her face. She closed her eyes, wincing in anticipation. This was going to hurt.

And then there was the sensation that she was falling, followed by the sensation of impact. But it wasn't the immutable solidness of floor. Undeniably solid, firm, and yet… yielding. Warm and... arms wrapped around her, and she buried her face in the front of the man's shirt. There was something familiar about the arms, the strength and warmth of the person who'd caught her.

Breathless, Nell pulled back slightly, and smiled. Agent Callen had caught her. She had finally found one of her agents. She hugged him tighter again. She was safe.

But the disembodied voice was still echoing around the vast, empty place.

'_Get out of here, Nell! Run! Run... Run…'_

Again, Nell looked around, trying to pinpoint the source, which wasn't all that easy considering Callen had yet to release her and she hadn't let go of him, either. The agent was like a security blanket to a small child, a flashlight in the dark.

Unease was growing in her once more. And that damnable pressure on her chest! And that voice... There was something so famil-

Nell started in Callen's arms, but he still did not release her.

Hetty was standing there, not five feet to Nell's left; a bizarre, stoic apparition. The old woman looked not through but _into_ Nell. Slowly the oddly cold version of their little clan's matriarch shifted her gaze from Nell up to Callen's face. 'Hetty' said nothing, but telegraphed dissonance with such intensity that Nell's own eyes sought out Callen's face. There was nothing unusual until her eyes met his. They were not the blue she expected. They were as black as the oblivion that had swallowed her in the ops room.

This was _not _Agent Callen.

It was _him_.

Nell squirmed to free herself, but his hold on her only tightened, the pressure on her chest was an anvil, a freight train, a mountain.

_'Get out of here, Nell! Run!_' Deeks, for she now knew it was Deeks' voice, shouted at her, pleading, urging. _'Run!'_

Nell awoke with a start, gasping for air, in the dark and all alone with the last thought from her nightmare echoing through her head.

_Where's Deeks?_

* * *

**A/N: What's happened to Nell? Who's the terror haunting her dreams? Where's Deeks? Stay tuned…?**

**A/N 2: I'm not intimately familiar with the series (watched season one, about half of season two and the first episode of season three so far), so characterizations are probably off (not that I was going for 'in-character' with the dream sequence)…**


	2. Callen's Comfort

**Author's Note: This had originally started out with a different plot in mind, but Bren Grail left a review with an intriguing plot seed that took root and overgrew the original plan/inspiration for this. Actually, I think this is now an even darker story than I had initially intended. (Not sure it's even appropriate for sharing here…)**

**WARNING: There's nothing in this particular chapter, but this might be a journey you'd rather not take with me, for it promises to be quite, quite dark.**

* * *

_Two Nights ago…_

Callen was drawn sharply from sleep. It wasn't a startle response, just a quick snap to wakefulness. He never slept deeply enough for anything to catch him unawares and make him start awake. But something _had_ awoken him. It was the sound of small cries and a struggling body.

_Nell._

He was on his feet in an instant, SIG in hand. The apartment was dark, but it didn't slow his response any. Her bedroom was separated from the main living space by a set of glass doors. He couldn't see any intruder in the dark room, but he didn't drop his guard as he carefully eased the French door open and stepped inside. A more thorough scan of the space confirmed that no one else besides the figure in the bed was there. Nonetheless he checked the attached bathroom and the closet.

Having cleared the premises, Callen holstered his weapon and turned his attention to the source of the disturbance. The young woman was more than tossing and turning amidst the tangle of sheets. She was thrashing. And moaning. Such a sight would've shocked any number of people into inaction or panic, but G. Callen had unfortunately witnessed the like before.

Night Terrors.

The poor thing. He didn't wonder what had happened to the young woman to cause her such agony, because he knew all too well. And he wasn't going to allow her to suffer any further.

Hesitating momentarily, Callen placed his hand gently on her shoulder and spoke her name in a clear, calm voice. She flinched at his touch but did not wake. He tried to wake her again, more forcefully but just as calmly. As per the old cliché, however, the third time was the charm.

Nell started violently awake, sitting up and gasping, her eyes wide with fear. She screamed.

_Damn it, G. _In his eagerness to end her distress, he'd forgotten about the dark. He was a strange figure, sitting on the edge of her bed, his hand grasping her shoulder. Of course Nell had freaked out. Then again, had she recognized him, would her response have been any different? Quickly, he leaned over and turned on the bedside lamp.

"Nell, it's Callen," he said. The young woman seemed to visibly calm as she recognized who was in her bedroom, which was a relief to him as well. "You were having a nightmare."

_And some_, Callen thought.

She swallowed and nodded shakily. Her eyes were glassy in the dim light. And then suddenly they spilled over. Callen really wasn't very good at this sort of thing, but there was nothing else he could do but pull the distraught young woman into his arms as she sobbed into his chest. He half expected her to react violently to his touch, but she did not reject the gesture.

He felt Nell's fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, becoming claws with a death grip. Her entire body shook uncontrollably, and he felt the cotton shirt cling to his skin as it became drenched with her tears. This wasn't 'I'm a little sad' crying. This was hysterical, 'I've been cut to my very soul' crying. Nell was hurting bad.

_I'm going to find and _kill _the bastard._

Callen didn't say anything. What could he say? It would only sound like pointless patronizing. This was a pain there were no words to soothe. His apologies could only go so far, and to beg further forgiveness was selfish. But as long as she'd let him, he would hold her, reassure her with his presence, be there for her, for her to know she was not alone.

Eventually, she calmed. But he knew it was simply because a body could not sustain such a physically draining outpouring of emotion for long. He hugged her close until he was certain she'd soon return to her senses and be made to feel awkward by his holding her. But when he moved as if to release her, Nell only clung tighter to him.

"Please," she whispered nearly inaudibly. "Don't leave me."

How could he, when she was suffering so? And it was very much his own fault, as much as it was that of a certain psychopath whose days were numbered.

"Alright, Nell," he said. "But lie down now, try to get some sleep."

He eased her back down, felt her panic as she gripped him harder before finally she reluctantly released him.

'Don't leave. You _promised,_' her eyes accused, pleaded. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, before removing his weapon and placing it on the bedside table. He left the lamp on. It would not bother him and it might lend Nell some comfort. And then he crawled onto the bed, lying down beside her, pulling her tight to him. Callen curled his body around her much smaller form, as if he could shield her from the world, from the wounds she had sustained to her heart and soul. _Oh, Nell. I'm so sorry. _She was still trembling.

As he cradled her, he tried not to think of the horrible events that had led such a sweet, compassionate, vibrant young woman to become so traumatized. But to no avail.

For he was as haunted as she was by the very same memories, and would bear the horror of hurting her upon his soul for the rest of his life...

* * *

**A/N: I sometimes play with nonlinear narratives, so this one will jump back and forth a bit as the history and the 'present' events, and their links to one another, are revealed.**


	3. Callen's Bad Morning

**Author's note: Hope my random approach to telling this story isn't too confusing…**

**WARNING: Some profanity.**

* * *

_As Callen cradled the tormented young woman in his arms, feeling her finally succumb to exhaustion, he couldn't help but replay the events of the morning in his mind. The day had seemingly started off so well. Nell had finally seemed to be returning to her normal bright self. And then this,_ _this__… Someone was going to pay with their life._

_...  
_

Callen made his way towards ops to check on the status of their current mission. The junior field agent and her detective partner were the primaries. And they were doing one hell of a job, Callen had to admit with a bit of pride. Deeks and Kensi always seemed too busy teasing and fighting with one another to ever get the job done. But they were, in fact, professionals, and extremely capable ones at that. They were due to check in this morning, and if all had gone well the previous night, they could set up the endgame 'meet and bust' for later that day.

Just as he was about to enter the technological heart of the Office of Special Projects, Nell Jones bumped into him. He did not have time to apologize or even catch her to ask her if she were all right, for she pushed by him and, by the sounds of her footfalls, was running down the hall.

His positive outlook on the day suddenly dissipated. He saw Eric staring after the door with just as much apprehension on his face as Callen felt.

"What was that about?" Callen asked, a knot -a specific, familiar knot- forming in his stomach. "Is Nell alright?"

"I don't know," Eric said.

"Is Nell okay?" Kensi Blye asked as she walked into ops, freshly showered and changed out of her undercover clothes. "She just ran past me towards the Ladies'. It looked like she was crying."

The two male agents exchanged concerned looks before returning their attention to Kensi. The last few months had been rough on the young woman. They all knew. But she'd been soldiering through, gradually regaining her peppy demeanor. This seemed like much more than simply one of her 'low' days. Something specific must have happened.

"We're not sure," Callen said. "Eric, did Nell do anything out of the ordinary this morning? Did she seem upset when she came in? Did she receive any phone calls?"

"No," Eric said, obviously bewildered by his partner's breakdown. "Nothing."

"What's going on?" Sam asked. He and Deeks had been laughing, joking about something, but quieted immediately upon sensing the tension in the room they'd just entered.

"Something's bothering Nell," Callen said. Sam gave him a look that was concerned but also pointed out the fact that she had the right to seem bothered, plus some, given how...

Callen looked to Kensi, and bless her, she read his mind.

"I'm going to go see if I can't get her to talk to me," the female agent said, excusing herself to go after their young team mate. Honestly, he wasn't sure how much Nell had disclosed to the strong female field agent, and whether she was liable to share her troubles now. But it was worth a try. Because if it was -as Callen suspected- a certain trauma darkening her world like a thunderhead rolling in across the plains, then Kensi was the best choice. Nell wouldn't want any of the others to know. And she wouldn't want Callen, because he knew _too_ well. But he could still help her by figuring out exactly what had reopened the wounds.

"Eric, just take us through the morning, step-by-step," Callen said. The computer tech shook his head as if he were waking from a daze, then nodded and chewed his lip briefly in thought.

"Honestly, nothing unusual happened," he said. "Nell came in, said 'good morning' to me, logged onto her system, and..."

Eric swiveled around to his computer, his fingers flying over the keys briefly, obviously onto something.

"Care to share with the class?" Sam asked, giving voice to the impatience Callen himself felt. Callen was already leaning over Eric's shoulder, trying to follow whatever lead had occurred to the younger man.

"Her email," Eric said. "She always checks her email first thing."

His fingers stopped and he withdrew slightly from the computer terminal. Hesitation to invade his coworker's privacy. Not a bad thing, Callen supposed. But how were they supposed to help if they didn't know what was going on? True, Nell had every right to her own privacy, but this appeared to be a major setback for her recovery (if it was indeed related to what Callen suspected), one that had to have been instigated by something... Callen wanted, no, _needed_ to know what had so badly upset the little pixie analyst who'd just begun to regain her normal cheerfulness.

"Let's see it," Callen said in a voice that informed the computer tech that it was not a request, and that Callen would take whatever flak was sent his way for the violation. Because ever since... he had made it his duty to protect the young woman from further harm.

Most of her inbox was the usual inter-office memos; data requests, procedural obscurae, etc. But the last one... it hadn't originated from within their own system, as most of the communiqués did.

It was a photo. Dark and grainy. But Callen recognized its content immediately, the knot in his stomach instead becoming a cold abyss.

"Everyone out!"

There was a split second in which Deeks, Sam and Eric just stared in large-eyed shock at Callen's sudden, intense flare of temper. And then Sam grabbed Deeks by the arm and urged him out the door, not even bothering with a 'You okay, G?' because it was apparent the seasoned field agent was_ not _okay. Not okay in the least.

Callen stopped the computer tech from scurrying out after his team mates by placing his hands on the young man's shoulders and pushing him back down into the chair in front of Nell's terminal.

"Not you, Eric. I need you to trace the source of that email."

The blonde tech was averting his eyes from the screen before him. And Callen couldn't blame him for not wanting to look at that _fucking_ photo. The irate field agent sighed, and swiveled the chair so that he was looking directly into Eric's alarmed green eyes.

"I'm not asking you to analyze that photo."

Callen already knew when and where it had been taken. The fact that it existed had come somewhat as a surprise at first. But with that psychopath, no doubt he'd wanted mementos to cherish later on, after both of his prey were dead. But who had recovered it, sent it to Nell? That fucking bastard was dead. It seemed unlikely at the time, but maybe he had had a partner, someone who got off on such perverse games, who liked to watch even more than the psychopath liked to play with his victims. Callen inadvertently glanced at the image again, as if it might lend some clue as to who this new sicko could be. Bile immediately bit at the back of his throat as memories surfaced and cut him deep. He might never be able to forget, but Eric didn't need to have such an image seared into his memory. It was bad enough that he'd damaged Nell beyond repair, he could at least spare her partner.

"You don't ever have to look at it again, Eric. In fact, please don't. Just tell me who sent that email and where to find them."

_And I'll take care of them._

Eric nodded, quickly closing out the email when he turned back to the computer screen and began tracing the asshole whom Callen was going to tear to pieces with his bare hands.  
...

_His hands were currently full of the peacefully sleeping young woman that he'd hurt so badly. What he'd done was absolutely unforgiveable. Yet she had placed herself in his hands, trusted him enough to fall into a deep sleep while enveloped in his embrace. How could she do that if she blamed him? The answer was simple. Nell _didn't_ blame him. And that made her a far better person than him, because he could not forgive those who'd caused them both such pain. He could only ever offer them their own suffering and death. But still it gave Callen just a twinge of hope that he wasn't as bad a person as he thought. For Nell had the best heart he'd ever known. And she called him 'friend.' _

_It was a good thought to accompany one into sleep._

* * *

**A/N: Still with me?**


	4. Sam's Interesting Morning(s)

**Author's Note: Honestly, I'm still working on all of my ongoing Nell/Callen fics (when I have the freaking time!)… I'm sorry the wait is always so long.**

**(OT: How about 'Kill House'?! That's what I'm talking about. Nell is such an awesome, fascinating character. They need to give her more non-Eric scenes and story arcs.)**

* * *

_The following morning…_

Sam rapped on the door again, feeling a niggling unease taking root in that tense spot between his shoulder blades.

"Nell?" He called as he knocked one last time. It wasn't that large of a building. Therefore, the young analyst's apartment could not be that large. She should've made it to the door by now. Unless she was in a heavy sleep, which he couldn't blame the poor, exhausted thing for. However, the man who had been on protective detail through the night was another story. That man was the definition of a 'light sleeper.'

Sam pulled out his cell phone and tried G. Callen's number first. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Voicemail picked up. He tried Nell's cell. No answer.

Okay. Now he was nervous. He slid the phone back into his pocket, exchanging it for a set of lock picks as he checked the hall. Coast was clear. It took him under 30 seconds to unlock the door. He turned the doorknob, pushing gently. No dead bolt. He'd have to talk to Nell about her security measures. But that could wait. He put his ear to the crack in the door, listening acutely for any sign of life, friendly or hostile. Silence. Withdrawing the SIG nestled at the small of his back, Sam entered the apartment in full 'federal agent' mode.

Nell's place was just above 'studio' in design, with a large, open-plan living space. The kitchen was separated from the living room by a sizeable island counter, which appeared to serve as her dining table and office. The place was empty and there was no sign of disturbance to the neatly stacked paperwork and nearly compulsively organized possessions of its inhabitant. That left only the French doors, and what logically must be the young woman's bedroom beyond them.

He silently made his way across the tidy living space. Taking a quick look through the old, warped glass, Sam didn't see anyone, so he slowly eased the door open and entered the room. He lowered his weapon upon realizing there was no threat present, just something that sent his eyebrows on a journey up his forehead and a curious smile quirking his lips.

G. Callen was sleeping, _really_ sleeping. And in a bed, too. The chronic insomniac was laying on his stomach. And on _top_ of Nell Jones. He wondered at how she could be equally unconscious as G looked to be with a man who was easily one and a half times her weight pinning her, grinding her into the mattress. But asleep she was, and apparently peacefully so. Sam hadn't noticed her at first, her petite body obscured by his partner's larger one, but for a naked, slender leg hooked over G's waist, white as cream against the dark denim of his jean-clad backside. And there, the shock of messy auburn hair, the sharp angle of her cheekbone, her face turned into the sleeping man's neck as his face was buried in her hair. A patch of pale skin denoted the young woman's wrist, her hand disappearing under the hem of G's worn t-shirt, doubtlessly lying against his warm, bare flesh. He could see that G's arms disappeared beneath Nell, holding her. His hands must have gone dead numb in that position. Actually, Sam could not think of a more awkward, uncomfortable position in which to sleep. For either of the entangled pair. Yet they seemed to be content.

Maybe not _content_ but... _safe_.

The thought turned his amused curiosity into a bitter pang. G was most definitely protecting the young woman, acting as a physical shield between her and the rest of the world. Sam could see it all now. Nightmares. Bad ones. Nell had obviously not been sleeping well since... just since... But she had seemed to be recovering. No more yawning or dark rings around her eyes, a haunted look _in _those big hazel depths. And then this all happened, a new threat from an unknown old enemy. And the nightmares came back. And G was here, probably on the sofa, or pacing about the small apartment in his sleepless state, heard Nell struggling in her sleep, came to help her, comfort her any way he could. She hadn't wanted to be alone, and so he'd stayed with her, held her, promised not to let go of her. _The man would not let go of her..._

Suddenly, it was _that _awful morning once again.

Sam Hanna had received a phone call an hour before the alarm was set to go off. It was the kind he always feared. Funny that, while at work, he was always terrified of receiving a phone call from home, that something (god-forbid!) happened to his wife or daughter. And when at home... something _had_ happened to his partner, the man who was like a brother to him. He had, of course, rushed to the hospital. Coincidentally, he'd been the closest one, living the furthest outside of the 'center' of Los Angeles. It was a smaller facility, the town and outlying areas it served well outside of what everyone thought of when they heard 'California'. And Sam got there first. Lucky he got there first. Because he was G's partner, and it was his duty to have the man's back. And that even meant protecting him against fellow agents, _friends_. Deeks and Kensi, they didn't need to see him like that. Not ever. Not if Sam had anything to do about it. But he had gotten there first, so there was at least that.

He had gotten there first, so he'd been the one to squeeze the details out of the doctor and then threaten him into never telling another soul of the 'classified' information. Bullet wound to the upperarm on Agent Callen, through and through, under twenty stitches to close. A few minor contusions. scratches on his arms. Nell Jones, bullet wound, graze, also to the upper arm, six stitches to close. Multiple contusions and abrasions to the face, neck, shoulders, arms, chest and abdomen, legs... Lingering water aspiration, possible bacterial infection in her lungs. Evidence of sexual assault, severe vaginal tearing requiring sutures. Blood loss.

But even the details, clinically gruesome as they were, hadn't prepared him for what he had found in that hospital room. When the doctor had offered to take Sam to Miss Jones' room, he had asked to see G first. He'd like to say it was because he wanted a more thorough knowledge of events before he spoke to Nell, to know how careful he had to be with the young woman who'd obviously suffered something horrible. But the truth was, he was closer to G, needed to see that his partner was okay before anything else.

The doctor had cleared his throat, visibly unhappy. He'd said, 'Mr. Callen is in Miss Jones room. He checked himself out of our care and then stationed himself there and has refused to budge. We tried to explain to him that visiting hours were over, that he would only be in the way and hinder Miss Jones' care. To which he replied that he would not be a hindrance and still refused to leave as instructed.'

The story hadn't been going anywhere good, Sam had been able to tell, yet it cheered him a little to hear of his friend's stubbornness persisting through whatever horrible shit had happened.

'And so," the doctor had continued, 'we were forced to call security to have him removed.'

Bad choice.

'He broke two of Stanley's fingers!'

_Lucky, it was only fingers, and just two, _Sam had thought.

"I'm sure he'll be pressing charges." The doctor had seemed to be on a roll once the complaints had started pouring forth, and Sam had been in no mood to hear them. Not when his friends were hurting.

"No. He won't be pressing charges," he had said with finality. The doctor fumed silently until he stopped in front of door, thankfully not in the Intensive Care Unit. Sam hadn't been sure when the doctor had cited 'blood loss' as one of her injuries.

"Miss Jones will likely still be unconscious. She was administered a good dose of pain killers and a sedative. Mr. Callen might also still be groggy from the sedatives. If I thought it'd be of any use, I'd ask you try to convince him to let a doctor check his vitals again. That man is far too stubborn for his own good."

Sam had glared at the doctor. The stubborn part had been quite right. But something hadn't made sense. Why would G have needed a sedative for being shot in the arm? A pain killer maybe, but that man was insanely collected even whilst sporting bullet wounds.

"What did you give him?" Sam had asked as if he were accusing the now anxious looking young doctor of shooting the agent himself.

"The paramedics had to sedate him in order to treat Miss Jones," the doctor had said defensively. "The man would not let go of her."

Before entering the small hospital room, Sam Hanna had swallowed hard, a futile attempt to rid himself of the lump that had begun to form there. The lights had been turned down low, which had done nothing to hide the horror he found within that room. Nell Jones had been lying in a hospital bed, looking as small and frail as an ill-treated child. Her skin had been paler than normal, almost white, which only caused the extensive bruising to stand out more starkly on her cheek, her neck and arms. Sam had been grateful for the hospital gown and blankets covering the rest of the young woman, obscuring the other damage from sight. Out of sight, but not out of mind. Her upper arm had sported a bandage where the bullet must have had grazed her, splitting the flesh open. Wire leads had trailed from under the thin cotton gown leading to machines monitoring her vitals. _Lingering water aspiration, possible bacterial infection. _That IV bag had likely been meant to stave off infection, pumping antibiotics into the port that had looked too large for the delicate hand it'd been inserted into.

Yes. Nell Jones was a petite woman. Intelligent and a little bit of a nerd. But vivacious and tough. Sam Hanna had seen that trait in her the first time they'd met. He'd certainly never thought he'd ever see her like he had seen her that day, _still_. Motionless. No bright eyes flashing with inspiration. No hands animatedly explaining some technical trick. No lively facial expressions lighting up the room. It had broken his heart more than just a little.

And if the sight of Nell so battered and frail had half-broken his heart, the sight of his partner had broken it entirely.

G. Callen had been sitting in the standard uncomfortable hospital waiting room chair shoved into the corner of the antiseptic room. And it had been odd. The man hadn't been reclining, slumped back into the piece of furniture. Nor had he been sitting pensively on the edge of the seat. It had not been a natural posture. Rather it had more resembled how a child would draw a picture of a man sitting. Straight and awkward. But however odd the way G's pose had been, the look in his eyes had been a thousand times more troubling. For as long as Sam Hanna had known G Callen, he'd never known the man to stare vacantly off into space. Even when there seemed to be no one at home, the man would reply as readily to any question put to him as if he were actively engaged in the conversation. This time, however, he had not responded to Sam's entering the room. And Sam had been able to tell that his partner had gone very far away.

"G?" Sam Hanna had spoken softly, not only as not to startle his friend or wake the battered young woman sleeping nearby, but because he had discovered his voice resistant to functioning. When he had called his name the second time, the catatonic agent's eyes had snapped to Sam's face, more pale and grey than he'd ever seen his friend's notable baby blues.

"Are you okay?" he had asked.

"No," G Callen had replied flatly. What could he have possibly said in response to that? Sam had simply nodded, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder and silently coaxing the man out of the chair.

"Why don't you come with me, back to the Mission. Get some rest."

The grey-blue eyes had shifted, locking onto the unconscious figure lying in the hospital bed.

"You don't want to leave her alone?" Sam had asked.

"No." The same flat reply.

"We won't leave Nell alone. Kensi and Deeks will..." Sam had trailed off as he felt the shoulder beneath his hand tense, saw G's fingers curl into a fist. He had decided it best to back off, and had stepped back from the disturbed agent.

"Hey, I get it," Sam had said. "If you want to be here when she wakes up, that's cool. Just tell me what you want to do, G. And we'll do it."

Finally, his partner had seemed to snap out of the oddly aggressive trance-like state, closing his eyes and shaking his head. When he had looked at Sam again, the man had begun to resemble G. Callen once more. Not wholly the friend Sam loved. But not a stranger, either.

"That..." G had said. "That wouldn't be good. She's not... I... I shouldn't be here when she wakes up."

Sam Hanna had seen his partner in many different states, and play act at numerous others, but he'd never before witnessed him so inarticulate. In general, G. Callen was a man of not a lot of words, but they always counted. He never squandered them or wasted them on incomplete thoughts. In fact, he had never seemed to have incomplete thoughts. But this version of the man had been _fractured_.

"Alright," Sam had said. "Kensi and Deeks should be here soon. We'll wait for them and then head home."

Callen had nodded his head in uncharacteristic deferment. The agent was generally the one giving out the orders, making judgments on courses of action. But he'd been in no condition apparently to even think straight.

"Give me a minute," he had said and Sam had headed for the door, feeling the knot in his throat tighten when as he had turned to close the door behind him he had seen G reach out to touch the sleeping Nell's arm but without completing the gesture and making contact. His hand had been shaking.

As soon as the door had closed, Sam had pulled out his cell phone and called Hetty.

/How are they?/ their boss had asked, a trace of severe concern in her voice that no one but those who knew her well would be able to detect.

"No life threatening injuries," he had said. "But pull whatever strings you have to in order to get Nate back here."

/That bad?/

"Worse."

So much worse than any of them could ever have imagined, Sam Hanna was certain. He'd never asked details of the traumatized pair of agents. And he never would. He wasn't even certain that, had his partner, his best friend, felt the need to unburden himself, he would have listen. He didn't want to know. It was enough that it had hurt them so badly. True, Sam hadn't known the man but for the past five years of his career, but the ex-seal would easily believe that it'd been the closest the agent had ever been to being broken. And Nell. God. Poor, Nell. They were fighters, both of them. Survivors. G from necessity, and Nell seemed naturally to possess the previously untested trait. And so Sam had watched the two of them as they fought their way back to some semblance of normality, never quite healing, and each on their own. Sam had thought perhaps it was because his nature (not to mention his training and instincts) to be a team player that he hoped the pair would turn to each other for support. Together they had survived that horrific ordeal. And together, he thought they'd have a better chance of continuing to do so. But neither of them had shown any sign of turning to the other for help. Rather, they seemed to be delicately avoiding each other, each afraid of dredging up the bad memories in the other. And neither ever fully healing because of it.

And now that the wounds had been reopened, they just hadn't been able to avoid it, had they? They'd finally turned to each other. And they seemed the better for it. It gave Sam Hanna hope that he one day might truly have his partner back. And that they one day might recover what was undeniably the spirit of their little team, in Nell Jones.

Sam Hanna holstered his weapon, and then reached out to shake G's leg, all the while attempting to combat the amused smile taking over his face. The agent snapped awake, recovered his weapon from the nightstand, rolled onto his back and had it pointed at Sam's face in one fluid movement. Sam threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Whoa, G," he said. "It's just me."

The rudely awakened agent visibly relaxed upon finding the intruder into his sleep to be his partner, lowering his weapon and taking a deep breath. His heartbeat must have gone from zero-to-sixty (or forty to a hundred, as it were) in under a second. When the anxiety of being taken by surprise had passed, G gave Sam a confused look.

"You snuck up on me." The man seemed highly perturbed by the fact. And Sam couldn't blame him. The aberration was worth noting. G Callen was the lightest of light sleepers. And no one could sneak up on the agent.

"Neither of you checked in this morning," Sam said. Nell was beginning to stir, her exhausted brain a few seconds behind her bedfellow. "I came over to check that everything was okay."

"Why didn't you call?" G asked.

"I did."

G's vibrant blue eyes widened.

"I also knocked."

A frown tugged at the corner of G's mouth. He said, "That's strange..."

Nell opened her eyes. The poor young woman started at finding the unexpected company in her bedroom. Sam could guess that upon first awakening, her brain all muddled by sleep, finding Callen in bed with her would have been shocking enough. To also find the man's partner looming nearby... Her expression quickly changed to one of deep thought as her memory booted up and synced with the reality her senses were showing her.

"You missed your wake-up call," Sam said when he felt she'd reached that gap in constructing the history that led to this moment in time. She nodded, looked at the older agent still reclining on the bed beside her, and then down to realize she was only wearing a pair of boy short panties and a camisole. She hopped up out of bed, squeaked out a plea to be pardoned, and bolted for the bathroom.

Callen got up, checking, holstering and then nestling his weapon at the small of his back.

"Has Eric traced that email yet?" G asked.

"He's still trying, but it doesn't seem like he's going to be able to get any results," Sam said. "I think he hasn't given up only because he's afraid of what you'll do to him."

"Or because of her," G said, looking towards the now shut bathroom door. Sam frowned. Eric seemed almost more out of sorts than the pair who had actually suffered the trauma, not knowing how to behave towards Nell, and in the beginning obviously blaming Callen for not keeping her safe. And the young man's turmoil at seeing his partner suffer was just another layer of guilt G had taken upon himself.

"We'll get this bastard, G. No one's going to hurt Nell ever again."

Perhaps the wrong thing to say, for his friend's face darkened considerably. What an idiot. Sam should've known how deep the guilt lay in his partner, that whatever had happened, whatever the facts, G couldn't get past the idea that he had hurt Nell. Sam opened his mouth to apologize, to say something encouraging, but Nell reemerged from the bathroom, wearing pajama bottoms and a robe over the scanty sleepwear that had embarrassed her.

She had her usual bright smile, one Sam had always thought genuine, but as of late had begun to wonder if she weren't far more adept at camouflaging her feelings than she appeared.

"How long do you need to get ready?" G asked her.

"45 minutes?" she said as if it was an offer that could be negotiated. "But you don't have to wait on me. You can go ahead with Sam."

This seemed to set G Callen off.

"You're not staying here alone," he said, his tone an extremely controlled growl. Sam had heard that voice before. G was filled with rage, but he was truly fighting it down. Sam knew he didn't want to snap at Nell, or Sam or any one close to him. But the man was almost untenably filled with the anger, against those who had hurt Nell, hurt him, and primarily against himself. Sam was about to butt in and take control of the conversation, placate both the vulnerable young woman and the surly older agent with a 'we're concerned about your safety, Nell.' But she herself beat him to the punch of calming the irate senior agent.

She placed a hand on his forearm. He looked down at her. Sam watched in strange fascination as they held a silent conversation. It was odd if only for the reason that he hadn't seen them have a real, verbal conversation since before he found them in that hospital room. All exchanges between the pair had been brief and strictly business until this morning. Or, for all he knew, things had changed last night. Sam hoped for the better. After a couple seconds, Nell turned to the bemused ex-seal and said, "We'll catch up with you at the Mission."

Sam looked to his friend, who nodded. Oh-kay.

"I'll see you in a few, then."

Sam left the apartment not knowing what to make of the change in his two team mates. Had they finally begun to heal? Could they survive the next few days and any wounds it might reopen?

* * *

**A/N: I had originally considered working in a chapter from the perspective of each team member, but I'm by far inspired by/completely taken with Callen and Nell, so not sure if that's going to work out. But as always, Sam seems to need to have his say.**


	5. Nate's Dilemma

**Author's Note: Sorry about the delay (yet again). I got distracted with writing Exposed (and my bajillion other real life projects). I do have this all figured out in my head now. I only need the time to write it…**

**We're not there yet, but this fic will very, very likely change to an 'M' rating in the near future. Just an FYI, as that will likely make it more difficult to find when it's updated (for those of you still with me).**

* * *

_Three Weeks Earlier..._

Nate fought down the anticipatory sigh that threatened, already knowing what the reply would frustratingly be, but also knowing how delicate he had to be with his reluctant patient.

"No."

Of course it was 'No', delivered in that flat, final tone that brooked no argument. It had been 'No' ever since Nate had finally worked up the nerve to suggest it. But damn the man, Nate was the professional here, trained in these matters. And he knew it was time. Because, frankly, he was getting nowhere with the man.

There _was_ one more ploy he could try to persuade his patient, but it felt a bit like a low maneuver. It was by no means unethical and it wasn't a lie. But it made him feel sleazy. Then again, this particular patient had never refrained from using tricks to weasel his way around the psychologist.

"It's what Nell wants," Nate said.

Nate watched the muscles in Callen's neck tense as the man clenched his jaw. But he did not issue an outright 'No' as he'd done every time before, so Nate knew he'd won out for the employment of the emotional blackmail.

And emotional blackmail it certainly was, for G Callen was the type to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders. _And_ the agent felt justified in the undeserved guilt he bore. Perhaps, it had been his shouldering of the burden that had allowed Nell to spring back as well as she had. But that was just a metaphysical explanation. And Nate was a psychologist. The reason Nell hadn't been entirely destroyed by the trauma of being raped and tortured was because of Agent Callen. Without him, she openly admitted, she would not have survived even had she lived. And Nate had tried to tell these things to the man, but Callen seemed unwavering in his decision to further torture himself. Maybe if he heard it from Nell, whom the man was obviously avoiding (for the reason Nate knew was to spare her any pain at even having to look at him), he'd accept it. The young woman didn't blame him. She viewed him as her savior. And Callen needed to see that.

The pessimistic side of Nate wondered if anyone could ever convince Callen to let go of the guilt. Even if the agent accepted that Nell only survived the ordeal because of his presence, Callen would not stop blaming himself. He told Nate as much. Sevastyan Mikhailov, the man who had kidnapped them, tortured them, was _Callen's_ enemy. It had been _Callen's _actions as an agent of the CIA that had gotten the man's wife murdered. That's what Callen had said anyway.

Upon pulling the report (after jumping through a million hoops and becoming entangled in red tape only to ultimately have Hetty show up and hand it over saying he should have gone to her in the first place), Nate discovered that this was not wholly true. Another case of Agent Callen blaming himself for the actions of others.

Mikhailov had been in charge of decommissioning one particular biological weapons program after the Soviet Collapse. A small but noticeable portion of the known stockpile Mikhailov was in charge of disposing had shown up in several black-market busts. The younger G Callen, green recruit to the CIA and eager to please (if Nate could read between the lines), had been assigned to turn Mikailov's wife. The man was known to be abusive (a sexual sadist as diagnosed by the psychologist who'd written the analysis of Mikhailov in the initial brief) and she was easily charmed and swayed by an attentive new lover. She had provided Callen, and subsequently his employers with the information needed to put an end to Mikhailov's illicit dealings. But instead of taking direct action, the United States government, in the interest of fostering the still fledgling relationship between the former communist superpower and the democratic west, had opted to hand over the information and let the Russian government deal with it internally. And they had, after carrying out their own investigation. The few weeks turn around of information and bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo had given Mikhailov enough time to not only learn from his various contacts that he'd been betrayed and would soon likely be persecuted by his own government, but had also allowed him the opportunity to murder his traitorous wife (apparently by drowning her in the bathtub after raping and beating her). Mikhailov had tried to run, but Callen had caught him and the man had spent the next 16 years in a Russian prison, stewing upon the events had led him there, the US agent that had put him there, and losing what little sanity he'd ever retained in the first place.

And when he'd been released...

It had taken the man three years and ultimately cost him his life, but if Nate was pushed to comment on the matter, he'd say that Sevastyan Mikhailov had gotten his revenge. And Nell had been caught up in the middle. Not that Callen deserved any such suffering, either.

The man that had been the primary concern of the psychologist's thoughts for the past few months had risen to his feet and was headed to the door of Nate's makeshift temporary office at OSP (officially for consulting upon various ongoing cases, unofficially for the duration of the psychological recovery of two traumatized agents).

"Where are you going?" Nate asked. "We still have half an hour."

"I'm only obligated to be here for an hour each week," Callen said, stopping with a sigh and turning to face the psychologist. "Nell's session is tomorrow, isn't it?"

Nate nodded his head.

"I'll be here."

And with that, the broken agent left. Nate let out the breath he'd been holding. How in the hell was he supposed to help a man who kept everyone at a distance and locked every thought and feeling down so deep that Nate didn't doubt Callen himself had trouble accessing them?

Nell.

He could only hope she was the key to convincing Callen to release the death grip he had on his pain.

* * *

**A/N: Short and not too exciting a chapter, but some necessary exposition, nonetheless…**


	6. Deeks: Duty (or) Nell: Not Again!

**Author's Note: Looking back, it has been a while, hasn't it? Sorry. It doesn't seem like I've taken so long to update when the stories just continue on in my head. Sort of a two-for-one in this, since the last bit obviously doesn't merit it's own chapter  
**

* * *

_That evening (of the day which began with Sam finding Callen and Nell oversleeping)..._

Detective Marty Deeks was on babysitting duty. At least, that was the term all law enforcement employees (whether they be local cops, state or federal agents) employed to describe protective detail assignments. Except, in this case, it was no chore. He was more than happy; he was _relieved_ to keep an eye on Nell Jones, to know she was safe.

To be honest, he was actually a bit surprised, and quite honored he'd been entrusted with the young woman's safety. Because for a while there, it had seemed like Agent Callen would refuse to leave her side, to trust anyone with her but himself, like a psychotically overprotective guard dog (one trained to attack with lethal force at the slightest provocation). And Deeks wasn't being melodramatic with the comparison. No one could have missed the change in behavior between the pair. Something had finally broken. Before, they'd interacted like there was a carefully constructed, extremely vulnerable, invisible barrier between them. Hell, for that matter, the entire team had been treating the two damaged agents with kid gloves. And it wasn't unwarranted. Once in a while, they'd forget, sink into the rhythm the team used to have. And then someone would say something unintentionally harmful and Callen's face would darken and he'd shut down.

Or worse, someone would absent-mindedly touch Nell and the young woman would flinch as if she'd been slapped. It was heart-wrenching. Deeks had only ever seen the reaction before in maltreated animals and abused children. _What the hell had happened to her?_

He studied Nell intently as she examined a stalk of some sort of greenery. Kale? Bok Choy? He was going with 'Bok Choy.' The detective didn't really know what either looked like, but he liked the sound of 'Bok Choy.' It sounded like some sort of special maneuver in a kung-fu film...

'_Yes, Marty. I killed your master.' _

_Man dressed in silk robes with neatly trimmed black beard poses on one leg with hands raised above his head, wrists at impossibly oblique angles. Deeks makes counter-pose._

_'Prepare to feel the wrath of the Bok Choy, Son of Stinging Scorpion.'_

Deeks stifled but did not kill the chuckle deep in his throat, and had to feign a cough to cover it. He told himself that Nell would've appreciated his discovery of whimsy in the produce. At least, the Old Nell would have. That thought hurt his heart. He liked the young woman. She was his favorite of the NCIS agents. Besides Kensi, of course, but Kensi didn't even count because she wasn't one of the _other agents_, she was _his partner_. She was...well, _Kensi_. He'd never known having a partner could be like this. All of his partners in the past had been a trial, even when they got along. He had resigned himself to, _embraced_ working alone. And then there was _Kensi_, someone so in sync with himself it was almost terrifying. Sometimes he wasn't so sure that... well, never mind that whole _thing._

Nell looked up and locked eyes briefly with him. He bestowed upon her what he knew was his goofiest grin, and received that adorable smile of hers in return. And it would've lightened his heart immensely if only it hadn't been quite so broad and beautiful. Because he knew she was not in any sort of frame of my mind to genuinely conjure such an expression. And maybe Nell was better at hiding her feelings -wearing a mask- than they all believed from her friendly, seemingly open demeanor. But even if she'd been putting on a face for them, Deeks could not believe it'd been the case since the beginning. The young woman was one of the most unguarded, real people he'd ever met. And she was the only one who seemed to really appreciate his sense of humor. _Because, yes, Nell Jones, I've caught that grin twitching at the corner of your mouth. _He'd often look to her when cracking a joke in ops, to find a battle in those bright eyes of hers to contain the mirth gleaned from his (yes, he'd call it) sparkling, albeit perhaps offbeat wit. Kensi may find him amusing, but Nell actually appeared to understand his humor. Perhaps because she'd retained the innocence Deeks himself was always trying to reclaim with his admittedly childish jokes, an innocence he could no longer find in her big, hazel eyes. _Oh, god. _It was just so heartbreaking...

He'd never forget the image of two broken, battered agents emerging from the wood. Not for as long as he lived. Even though he hadn't even witnessed it with his own two eyes. Even though the account had been not even second, but third hand by the time he'd coaxed it out of the ER nurse that dreadful morning. Normally, tales were twisted, exaggerated as they spread. Yet, in this case, he could only see the scene seared upon his brain in horrifyingly vivid details (that he had not trouble believing).

Callen, covered in dirt and blood, looking like he was half-dead and inhuman. Deeks could picture the ferocity in the man's expression. _That_ man was capable of an intensity that was both terrifying and inspiring. In this case, no doubt it was beyond terrifying. And cradled in that formidable visage's arms, Nell Jones. Nell Jones looking like a battered, blood stained angel. Her skin ghostly pale beneath the purple bruising and smears of dirt and blood. A small, wispy slip of humanity hanging in the ghastly creature's arms as he emerged from the woods into the small town.

Miles and miles, the man had walked, carrying Nell's broken body, blood soaking his torn and stained shirt, pouring from the hole in his arm. The pain must have been unimaginable. To make such a trek after being tortured for hours upon hours, as well as shot. Deeks had been shot a couple times before. It hurt. A lot. And he knew that was only a small part of what the pair had suffered.

Deeks shook off the image, instead focusing his attention on the young woman before him, fully alive and healthy, and with the appearance-if the not the actual experience- of happiness. He could've pretended to be her boyfriend, an excuse to stay close. But he'd been afraid of inadvertently touching her in an absent-minded gesture of affection, as sometimes an alias did consume even his unconscious thoughts. Earlier, he had witnessed Callen lay a protective hand upon the young woman, and she had seemed grateful for the reassurance it obviously provided her. But there was no telling how Nell Jones would react to anyone else's touch. For what had only days ago seemed an almost aversion between the pair had inverted entirely, transforming into what appeared a strong bond, one that still kept at bay everyone else in the world.

Besides, it was much easier to keep an eye out from a few yards away. From his position, Deeks could see if someone approached her from any direction and still be at her side in less than three seconds. They probably shouldn't be in such a public, uncontrollable situation, but Nell needed something to distract her. He couldn't imagine what it was like for someone with a mind like hers, one running a million calculations a second, to be focused entirely on something terrifying. When she had suggested she make dinner for Kensi and himself, he'd agreed, feeling it was a good thing to distract at least part of that genius brain of hers. They could almost pretend it was completely normal. Just three friends having dinner together. And then Deeks would leave and Kensi would stay for the night.

Just like a sleep over.

He almost laughed, picturing bad ass Kensi Blye doing such girly things with Nell as painting toenails and discussing the merit of certain male celebrities' butts. Maybe a pillow fight. Feathers flying everywhere as the girls playfully struck each other with their harmless weapons. The down floating around them like a snow storm as they giggled, bouncing on the bed. In skimpy pajamas. Okay, now this was _really_ going somewhere... well, somewhere _not_ good.

And that was Marty Deeks in a nutshell, wasn't it? When faced with potentially depressing thoughts, such as his partner having to spend the night watching over their little intelligence analyst because someone who had hurt the young woman intended to do so again, his mind fled to the ridiculous.

Nell met his gaze and nodded, indicating she was ready to check out. Following at a casual distance, he snagged a _People_ magazine and a candy bar, getting in line behind the petite red-head. The cashier was a cute blonde with a cheerful smile, made all the more alluring for the fact that her teeth weren't all artificially straight and glaringly bleached. Deeks flirted with her, in as much because he knew Nell expected it and would feel more put off if he didn't, as that it was a lovely smile he earned from the girl.

It was slightly unsettling to find when he emerged from the small organic market right behind Nell Jones that the crowds had thickened in the half-hippie, half-hipster shopping district. He took the bag of groceries off from her, and considered the options. The question was whether there was more risk in sticking in the mass of people, where someone meaning Nell harm could blend into the anonymous throng and get in close and stab her or something else horrible, or in avoiding the crowd where he could easily see anyone menacing approaching but someone might be more bold in attacking them. If he had a better idea what the unknown enemy's MO was, this would be a much simpler decision. Deeks silently cursed Callen's tight-lipped discretion. No one had said it outright, but this was all about G Callen. And who was to say the psychopath out to hurt the federal agent wouldn't find simply killing Nell a sufficient strike against him?

No. Deeks wanted more control over the situation. Ready to pull away if she reacted badly, Deeks put a gentle, guiding hand on her arm. He felt her stiffen, but she quickly relaxed as she counteracted her instinctual aversion to being touched, knowing he meant her no harm. Constantly scanning the crowd for anything remotely out of the ordinary, he thusly guided the young woman down a side street. They were parked the next street over and it would only take them a few minutes to get to the car. And the sooner, the better for his tingling nerves.

For someone was following them. He could feel it.

"Run!"

He gave Nell a shove just forceful enough to give her no choice but move forward, her legs picking up the command he'd issued before consulting her higher brain functions. Whirling around, Deeks blocked the punch that had been aimed for the back of his head and began a desperate fight, not for his own life, but for his friend's.

* * *

Nell Jones came to a stumbling halt. What was she doing, running away when a colleague, a _friend_, was in danger?! What kind of coward was she? A pulse of anger surged through her and she turned around to sprint back from whence she came. She wasn't going to leave Marty Deeks alone to face an enemy, an enemy who was after _her_, just because the detective had shouted at her to run.

Okay, she _had _run. It was an instinctive reaction. But her team mates were all so determined to protect her, that they failed to remember that she could not only protect herself, but watch their backs as well.

Or not.

There was an all too familiar sharp pain in the side of her neck.

_Fuck._

A memory flashed through her mind.

_Catching Callen on his way out to his car with a form he'd forgotten to sign. She knew it would irk the agent to have to come in the next day just for one measley shooting incident report when he'd spent the entirety of the last two days catching up on paperwork and Hetty had given them all a day off in reward for its completion. _

_"Thanks, Nell," he said, reaching out to sign the paper on the clipboard in her hand. She jerked suddenly, causing his signature to run off the edge of the paper. Her hand went instinctively to her neck, the source of the pain. What she thought had been a neck spasm immediately proved otherwise when she felt something solid protruding from her skin. She yanked it out staring dumbly at the dart, and beginning to feel odd. When she looked to Callen, she noticed he had a startled look on his face as he examined another dart precisely like the one clutched between her own fingers._

_"Oh shit," he said, but it sounded a long way off. The world was getting hazy at the edges and she felt her legs give way, the vague sensation of Callen's hands on her waist, catching her, supporting her. The both of them falling slowly to the ground, his cushioning the impact by pulling her to land on top of his chest as his back hit the pavement. And then nothing but blackness._

_And when she woke... the nightmare had begun._

Nell pulled the dart out of her neck. Some genius she fucking was. 'Fool Me once..." and all that. Seemed there really was nothing she could do for it but sigh heavily as the world grew hazy, mumbling, "Not again."

Nell Jones hit the ground in an unconscious heap.

* * *

**A/N: I didn't intend to make Deeks seem insensitive or overly goofy. But it's difficult to capture a character who deals with trials and dark subject matter with humor, and I'm obviously not skilled on that level. **


End file.
